


Eidolon

by renee_day



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Uglies Series - Scott Westerfeld
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bloodlust, Body Modification, Genetic Engineering, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pretties AU, Vampires, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renee_day/pseuds/renee_day
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil’s voice is lower, raspy, when he speaks next. “I- I can’t promise anything. But we don’t make anyone stay, once they fulfill their purpose.” There’s a catch in his voice, a delicate hesitation that dances around doubt.<br/>“You don’t think I’ll want to go back, do you?” Phil bites his lip and shakes his head. Dan huffs out a laugh, because there’s no way in hell he’s staying. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”<br/>Phil shrugs, pushes off the bars on the end of the bed he’s been leaning on, strides to the exit. His boots scuff softly against the polished concrete. He pauses in the doorway, profile silhouetted as he half-turns back. Dan would laugh at the dramatics if he wasn’t drugged to calm, hadn’t just been attacked and kidnapped. “That’s what I thought, too.”</p>
<p>Pretties Phan AU with genetically engineered vampires and hella angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sanguine

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in Scott Westerfeld's Uglies universe, between the books Pretties and Specials. You don't have to have read the books to read the fic, though it is encouraged (mostly because the series is spectacular). tl;dr version: massive body modification to 'pretty' at 16, post-apocalyptic utopian consumerist future. The 16-25 ish group of people can do basically whatever they want, overseen by Wardens, (helpful nurse-ish middle-aged people), who are overseen by the City Council.

 

 

**PART ONE: SANGUINE**

 

 

Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will.

_-_ _Thomas Carlyle_

 

-*-

 

            Cat nudges him and asks something, pupils flashing bronze and iridescent with a new surge. Instinctually, he wants to glare at her for the interruption, but the eye movement would delete the message he’s blinking out. His brother hasn’t seen or talked to him for months, which makes Dan think the sudden surge in communication is his parent’s doing, but there’s a sort of plodding familial obligation he feels he owes. He sends the note, then starts a time-wasting game out of spite, ignoring her until she pings his skintenna, the network of electronics and sensors and artificial nerves that was his first and only major body modification.

_Talk to me, you asshole_ , and he really should. She sulks insufferably in the days after Dan retreats to his asocial tendencies. He blinks away his game as she repeats her question a third time.

            “I’m sorry, what?” he says, and Cat sighs and rolls her eyes.

            “Do you want to leave?” she asks again. Dan shrugs, and a beat later, body rocking to the music, shakes his head. The heat of the bash is pressing, claustrophobic, but going home now means missing the only redeeming quality of the parties. His friend looks bored, though, and he realizes with a pang that she’d probably only come so he could wait for the fireworks with someone.

            “I’m going up to the roof.” Dan hesitates, adding, “You can go, if you want.”

            She bites her lip. “I don’t want to leave you all by yourself.”

            “I’ll be fine, Cat. Really.” Cat shoots him a guilty look, then weaves into the crowd. Dan walks the other way, the beat of the music thudding through his body as he heads for the elevator. Inside, it smells of spilled alcohol and sweat, and he tries to ignore the glares of the Foodies he’s now sharing space with. He scratches at his calf, regretting picking the sparkle option on the black jeans currently adhered to his legs. There are mirrors on the elevator walls, and in them Dan can see his hair starting to curl from heat, pupils large and dark in the low light of mood strips.  And then they’re up, elevator’s inhabitants spilling out, and it’s icy-dark, the wind strong, clean and vibrantand _alive._ Dan walks over to an edge not crowded with people, filling his lungs with the night air.

            He’s been in the city for a year, and so far his favorite part is the fireworks. He likes the colors, the rumble in his chest, the height and darkness and act of self-destruction that accompanies them. The first flash appears, and he leans forward and watches intently. So intently, in fact, that when they end he’s disoriented, eyes still filled with light. When he finally blinks enough to clear his vision he realizes he’s alone except for someone perched on the corner of the thick concrete barrier keeping the drunk or high from tipping over the edge.

            “Hey,” Dan says, “you should really get down.” Whatever they’d taken, they would probably appreciate sleeping it off at home, instead of on cold concrete inches from a precipice. But instead, the figure unfolds, their body blocking the star-scattered void above. She lopes along the barrier and drops down next to Dan. Her frame is thin, but squat like the pines behind his parent’s home, and she walks with a lilt that screams _predator._ His heart’s beating fast and hard, because there’s something scarily controlled, even monstrous, about her movements. But her gaze, ash-dark though it is, is hyper-aware in a way that relaxes Dan - he was right, she’s just high. But then her gaze sharpens further, and Dan backpedals but just manages to crash with an _oof_ against the wall of the elevator and she boxes him in. His heart is beating at a frankly ridiculous rate right now, and his throat’s tight and the concrete is cold and hard behind him.

            She holds his gaze as she moistens her bottom lip, flaxen hair waving and floating around her face. Dan only sees her fangs, curved and sharp, a second before they’re buried in his neck. He starts clawing futilely at her arms, but then she’s sucking, and there’s blood dripping down his chest, and his head’s swimming and he’s only still standing because the girl has pressed herself against him as she roots around in his neck. The wind is still blowing high and strong, and for a second Dan glimpses the sky, the stars, trying to distract himself from the pain. _Please let it be over, it **hurts** , please please please_. He fades out to a song, a beat he thinks he can hear echoing from downstairs: _thump_ thump.. _thump_..thump… _thump……_ thump.

 

-*-

 

            Dan spends three days in the hospital, sedated and healing. When he wakes, a middle-pretty doctor with a waterfall braid is standing at the foot of his bed. Her eyes are kind, and Dan shifts under the bleached sheet drawn tight up to his neck.

            “Are you okay? Would you like some water?” Dan blinks, eyelids sticky, and he’s still not entirely sure why he’s here. _Did I get really drunk and get new surge?_ She settles at the end of his bed, demeanor comforting and concerned, and asks, “Do you know where you are? Why you’re here?”

            He thinks back, and yeah, he remembers going to a party with Cat, so drunk surge would be a possibility, if the doctor didn’t look so concerned. He would’ve…gone to see the fireworks, and yeah, he can remember the elevator ride up, complete with disgruntled Foodies. _Did I get sick, or overdose?_

“Who brought me here?” The nurse stares at a spot above his right shoulder, ignoring his question. Dan exhales loudly, annoyed. Well, okay, if he got up to the roof, he would have seen the fireworks. And he can sort of remember, now – bright flashes, the rough concrete. After that, though…oh. _Shit. Shit fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“There was a girl- she-“And it’s coming back to him now, and a monitor to the right starts making concerned noises, and before he knows it he’s been put back under.

            He remembers what happened right off the next time he wakes, and it scares him. There’s a warden that comes in, an older middle-pretty nearing retirement age, and Dan tells them what happened. But though the warden promises they’ll get the girl who bit him – _and sucked his blood, the fuck?_ – their eyes tell a different story.

 

-*-

 

            It’s been a week since Dan has left his apartment, because there was no way in _hell_ he’s becoming someone’s dinner a second time. He’d spent the days sipping iron-recovery meds and watching self-defense vids. He could still say he has a bad hangover, avoid Carrie’s birthday party tonight, but it isn’t often he gets to see his friend from the bigger city to the south. He gets the hole in the wall to spit out an outfit with the non-specific request of ‘it’s for a party, jackass’. When he stands in front of his mirror, it reflects pretty much last week’s outfit, but with more eyeliner and no itchy glitter.

            The weather has warmed since Dan shivered his way into his apartment last week, so Dan decides to walk to the park. On the way he’s twitchy enough his skintenna manages to send three blank messages and start composition on a piano sonata. Nevertheless, the weather is enough to make up for it, still holding winter’s bite, but clear and perfect in the twilight. He follows the arrows his interface ring pops into his vision, and soon he emerges into one of many clearings in the park intended for gatherings like this one. Most are empty at this point in the season, though he can hear a large gathering a little ways off. A waterfall of golden curls is talking to a boy Dan doesn’t know, but turns when he points at Dan.

            “The Great Danosaur, come to grace us with his presence!” she yells as she tackles him with a hug.

            “Fuck- fuck off,” Dan laughs as he returns his friend’s hug. “What’s a danosaur, anyway?”

            “Like a dinosaur?” Carrie sighs when he gives her a blank look. “Okay, neverm-“

            “Carrie!” She perks up at Chris’s shout, his path across the grass leaving a swathe of dewdrops missing. “I just bet PJ he couldn’t chug that crystalline vodka I got you – how attached are you to it, because this promises to be spectacular.” There are red spots of excitement high on his cheeks, and every movement seems dynamic. Burning, even. Dan turns and heads away, because he’ll occupy Carrie’s attention for a while – potentially the rest of the party. She and Dan have been friends since they were littlies, but he doesn’t blame her for finding their mutual friend distracting. Her eyes track the brunette’s movements, and Dan shivers.

            He settles against a tree, colored lanterns filling the branches arching over him. He doesn’t know many of the people, but it’s nice to just stay still and _be_ for a while. The party goes on around him, like he’s a rock in a stream. No one expects anything of him, and even Carrie only spares a glance or two his direction until the party begins to wind down. With shadows pulling at the clearing, they settle in a circle on the grass and play a game of secrets and stupidity. But mostly stupidity. One has to tell something personal about themselves, or else do something silly. Carrie has to kiss PJ, a now extremely drunk friend Chris had brought, and Cat, who’d showed up majorly late, has to say why she’d been late, which she answers by revealing some impressive hickeys on her neck. Then it’s her turn to pick the next person.

            “Hmm…” Cat’s eyes flick back and forth between Chris and Dan. _Oh shit no, I’m sorry I haven’t been returning your calls, you don’t know what happened, please, I can’t- “_ Dan!” She smiles the wide, Cheshire grin of her namesake. “Where have you been, the last week?”

            He swallows harshly, stomach turning over. “Home all week, I’m afraid.” _Please leave it at that, c’mon Cat, please._

Cat’s eyes flick over to Carrie. “Can I ask why? That wasn’t very truthful.” Carrie gives a mock-queenly nod, giggling, and then everyone’s eyes are on Dan. He answers in a low murmur, twisting and pulling at the ends of his sleeves.

            “Last weekend – that party, Cat? At the end, I was up on the roof, watching the fireworks. There was this girl – I thought she was high, I didn’t- I just wanted to be _nice_ , I didn’t expect-” He describes the rest of the story, the pain of being bitten, the helplessness. Cat starts looking queasy halfway through, and Dan continues savagely, focusing on details.  It’s not fair, but neither was having to recount what happened, when all he wanted to do was forget. He’s still so _afraid_.

            Everyone stays silent when he finishes, as he stands up, as he storms off - there isn’t anything they could say. It is an ugly story, a violent intrusion on their champagne-and-rose bubble. He stays to the shadows as he walks by other clearings, food and laughter and electropop. There’s a huge clearing up ahead with the group he heard earlier, and he skirts around it. There are small groups clustered around the massive bonfire in the center. The shadows lick across their faces, adding eeriness to the scene, and Dan edges further into the trees.

            “Don’t run,” a voice commands from behind him.

            “Mother _fucker_ ,” and Dan is bolting before he looks, before he even thinks. He weaves between the trees, and when he looks behind him he sees pale skin and the grace of a predator, same as the other one.  But he hasn’t exercised since his Pretty surgery, and while he still looks lean, he’s gasping for breath halfway around the clearing. _Okay, okay, got to-_ He scoops an aesthetically placed stick off the ground, and as he makes a loop around a tree he grabs another one. The guy chasing him loops around the tree too, eyes black through the irises and narrowed. _Great, he’s pissed._ Dan swings the stick, misses completely, and has it taken from him from the man.

            “Ace job, thanks for that. Now, if you’ll just listen for a second….” The man – boy? – raises an eyebrow and glares at the same time, and Dan collapses against the tree, leaning heavily and gulping in air. “I’m not one of the people who attacked _oh_ -” He stops speaking as Dan drags the other stick out from behind him and whips it up between his legs. The assailant seems to be in pause, shadows static, eyes squeezed shut, and then Dan brains him with the stick as hard as he can. As the boy collapses – _even his falling is adroit, creepy asshole_ – there’s a pricking sensation on his neck.

            “For fuck’s sake,” a girl behind Dan says as his muscles give, dropping to the ground, “can I just not have to clean up…” There’s no encroaching blackness or warning – he can’t move, and then he’s gone.

 

-*-

 

            There’s thunder cracking and raised voices when he comes to.

            “-prepared! How do you expect _him_ to dothis? I should-“

            “Enough. If he agrees, these are your orders. If not…you’ll play your part.” Silence roils in the next room. Dan looks around, seeing medical equipment and an aggressively cheery color scheme. He’s pretty sure they gave him something, because he’s not particularly afraid. He runs his fingers over his neck, traces his fingers under his jaw, and it seems like no one else bit him. He’s in a hospital room, but other than whatever’s in the I.V. in his arm, it doesn’t seem like anything’s been done to him.

            “Hello.” The voice from the next room, the yelling one, walks in and stands at the foot of Dan’s bed, and it’s the pale dude he knocked out at the park. “I suppose I should try to tell you again that I’m not like the person who attacked you. Because this went so _swimmingly_ the first time.”

            “You look like them, you move like them, and you- you sounded like a serial killer. ‘Don’t move?’ I mean, shit, ‘your skin looks nice’ can’t even top that.” Dan holds the boy’s gaze, and after a few seconds, he offers a shrug. Dan counts it as a victory. “So what are you, then, if not one of…?”

            “I’m a Special. We work above the wardens for the Council. I was assigned to you after I found you on the roof, called the wardens. Yesterday I was supposed to ask you a few questions about the girl that attacked you.” He pauses and rubs the side of his head, and Dan’s pretty sure there’s a bump under his hair that wasn’t there yesterday. “But then you fought back – pretty effectively, actually, nice feint with the stick – and now the higher-ups think we could use you.”

            Dan’s head is whirring, and he’s both pissed and apprehensive. “What’s your name?”

            The boy’s forehead creases. “Phil, but I don-“

            “Phil, how old are you?”

            “Twenty.” Dan’s positive now that they gave him something to keep him calm. The man – boy? – in front of him, only _two years older than him,_ has a body that’s been groomed for violence. He’s like an old-time Rusty soldier, or the rebels on the other side of the world in Diego. Dan breathes in, and his ribcage swells rigid.

            “If I do whatever they want me to do, will I end up like you? All – I don’t know – murder-y looking? Because I don’t want to get attacked again, but I like my life.” _And I don’t want it to be like yours._

            He looks surprisingly thoughtful, and Phil’s voice is lower, raspy, when he speaks next. “I- I can’t promise anything. But we don’t make anyone stay, once they fulfill their purpose. When this is over, your old life will be an option.” There’s a catch in his voice, a delicate hesitation that dances around doubt.

            “You don’t think I’ll _want_ to go back, do you?” Phil bites his lip and shakes his head. Dan huffs out a laugh, because there’s no way in _hell_ he’s staying. Once he does whatever dubious thing they want him to do, he’s out of here. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

            Phil shrugs, pushes off the bars on the end of the bed he’s been leaning on, strides to the exit. His boots scuff softly against the polished concrete. He pauses in the doorway, profile silhouetted as he half-turns back. Dan would laugh at the dramatics if he wasn’t drugged to calm, hadn’t just been attacked and kidnapped. “That’s what I thought, too.”

 

-*-

 

            Dan’s been waiting a while, drifting in and out of sleep, when another person finally comes in. She looks official, dark hair pulled back tightly against her scalp, and dressed all in gray.

            “Hello, my name is Dr. Percy. I head up the X-Surge department. How are you feeling?” she asks, and it’s obvious that concern doesn’t come naturally to her. She clicks over to the table in the corner, laying down the stack of papers she’s carrying.

            “Like I got drugged and hit my face on a tree on the way down. What do you want me to do?” She stops moving when he speaks, and her muscles stiffen visibly. When she turns around, her face has dropped its pleasantness. She stabs at the interface on her forearm with her finger, and a display pops up on the wall behind her.

            Long, curved canines.

            Skin like marble.

            It’s his body, but taller, stronger, predatory – even the eyes are different, darker, with a gleam that isn’t entirely human, entirely sane. A flash tattoo pulses on the scar on his neck from the bite.

            It’s him, remade in the image of that _thing_ that attacked him.

            “Oh _hell_ no. No fucking way. Ever. EVER.” The doctor drags her palm across her arm, and Dan flinches away from the new image on the wall, leans over the side of his bed, and vomits. Dan keeps his back turned away, eyes lowered as he scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth.

            “This is the second Special I’ve lost this week, one of dozens over the past few months. All butchered in the same way. Each time, afterwards, we were hit in vital areas of our compound, which makes me think the operatives are being tortured.” Dr. Percy runs a hand through her ponytail, and it’s the first movement she makes that’s even remotely unfocused. “You’re an ideal solution – untrained, uninformed, and unattached. The Specials that preceded you attempted to infiltrate the clique that’s formed around drinking blood and these specific modifications,” she waves her hand at the other-Dan on the wall, “but they couldn’t put aside their pride, or their training. When you can pin another Vamp the first day in the clique, people start to question where a bubblehead gained fighting experience.”

            The back of his throat’s still burning, and it feels like the air is seeping out of the room. The lights on the ceiling are bright, giving too much input – he can’t quite focus his peripheral vision. “I said _no_. I want to help, but-“

            “I never said we needed your permission.” Dan’s wheezing now, because whatever they’re pushing into the line in his arm is losing to the panic. “I would have preferred you agree, of course. I was hoping, given your nature, that you could handle it. The tests suggested – ah, well. Now, we’ll need to send another operative with you, make sure you do what you’re supposed to and don’t try to bolt.”

            There’s a high keening coming from Dan’s throat, and for some reason he can’t stop it. He presses his hands over his mouth, as Dr. Percy pulls her unused papers back into a neat stack. “Once you’ve Surged and begin travel to the apartment we’ve set up for you, we can’t risk contact. It’s more dangerous for both of us. Hopefully this is the last time we see each other.” Through tunneled vision and buzzing ears, Dan sees her look up at the ceiling, call out that ‘we needed tranquilizer two minutes ago in here’. Then she sweeps out through the doorway, and takes the rest of the light with her.

 

-*-

           

            There’s an I.V. in Dan’s foot when he next awakens, and he’s in a tank, floating in the amber liquid he thinks he remembers from his Pretty surgery. Blinking fails to bring up his skintenna, and he’s paler, so they’ve already done an artificial skin graft. He guesses he’s on emotion stabilizers, because he’s not only not angry or scared, he’s not _anything._

            There’s movement through the glass, and Dan squints through the haze of yellow to see the Special, Phil, wheeled in on a hospital bed. It’s the thick glass makes it difficult to tell, but his body looks stretched - less dense, lankier. It’s hard to look at him and picture who he was only hours before. Dan closes his eyes and wishes for sleep, waiting for the next change to appear.

 

-*-

 

            Tap.

            Tap, tap.

            Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap….

            He opens his eyes to Phil sitting at a table next to Dan’s tube, eating paused to wake Dan up. The Special gives a little wave and continues to eat once he sees Dan is awake. Dan tries to talk, but the oxygen mask on his face blurs the sounds. His body feels different, not as much as he’d expected, but still more muscular, a little taller. Phil’s eyes track his stretching warily, and don’t stop darting from limb to limb until Dan stops moving.

            “They’re about to do local surgery – teeth and eyes, I think.” He nods through the glass at Phil, who shrugs and turns back to his soup. It’s good to know the person he’s stuck with can be civil, at least. The boy in question eats mechanically, but can’t seem to still a tapping foot. It reminds him of a heartbeat.

 

-*-

 

            Dan expected the teeth to feel weird, and yeah, he’s probably in for a bit of a freak-out about them when they finally get him off the stabilizers, but the biggest change he notices when he wakes up is the eyes. First he can’t see, because even though they’ve dimmed the lights significantly, it’s still too much information for his brain to process from his eyes. His waits out the brightness, and then there’s a system of squares in the glass enclosing him. He examines them unthinkingly, captivated by the intricate crystals. Phil is in the corner, sprawled on a bed pad and deeply asleep.

            Dan can see the pores in his own skin, and the waving of strands of hair like kelp undersea. He can’t help wondering if the surge on his eyes was a bit overdone, because he can see the same details in Phil, from across the room. He thinks they got his ears too, and though they aren’t nearly as sensitive in comparison, but the difference is still… _holy fuck is that his heartbeat?_

And perhaps he could hear someone’s heart, if he were a bit closer and not muffled by double-walled glass, but the thudding draws closer and resolves when the doorway is filled by Dr. Percy. She sweeps in with lackeys scurrying in her wake, who are reading off their notes in the language of the peninsula to the west. She rattles off an answer in the breathy, rapid-fire tongue, head tipped up imperiously and jaw clenched.

            Dan grunts angrily, because maybe actual anger requires testosterone and shit, but for him, feeling truly and righteously _pissed_ doesn’t seem to require the neurotransmitters his emotional stabilizers are blocking. In the corner, Phil jerks awake and curls against the wall, eyes narrow and oversized sweater pulling to one side. Dan watches as his gaze darts from person to person, side-eyeing the potential exits. Only when he appears to have fully examined the room does he drop into watchful neutrality.

            “You’re about to be put under for the final procedure. You won’t leave the room, and it will be administered to you in a series of doses, intravenously.” Her eyes flick back to her paper, body language expressing boredom and assurance, but there’s a flicker in the muscle next to her eye, and her shoulders tip millimeters inward. _How do I ask a question? Thrash about until she figures out I’m unhappy?_ He’s just started to shake his head, a meaningful expression on his face, when a voice slices through the room’s sense of complacency.

            “You’re doing Genmod.” Dan would almost call it an accusation, but that doesn’t feel right. It feels more like a question, and if there wasn’t a slight edge to his voice, Dan would think he’s just clarifying. But there’s something about Phil that, despite the carefulness of the question, makes Dan think he’s being a sarcastic little shit. Dr. Percy’s mouth ticks to the side.

            “If we want him to be trusted enough to get useful information, we need-“

            “To kill him using experimental procedures, or me when he can’t control himself and goes for my neck? You can’t expect-“ _I’m not going to drink blood. Nope, nope, nopity fucking no._

            Dan starts thrashing, because what the hell, whatever happens he wants the doctor to know he’s _not_ okay with this. She looks up at the ceiling in exasperation and turns completely away from Dan. “I’m sorry, did you somehow bond despite the fact that he _can’t speak_? Why the hell are you-“

            “I could care less about him,” Phil says, and his voice is slate, flat and hard. There’s no doubt in Dan’s mind that he is telling the truth. “I just don’t think this is going to be effective. And I don’t fancy being a pincushion for Mr. Pale and Bitey when we’re stationed.” Dan hasn’t noticed before, but the movement of Phil’s limbs has slowed, his milk-pale skin warmer. He may still be a Special, but he looks Pretty down to his ice-blue eyes, though they look grass-green through the fluid suspension Dan’s in.

            The doctor turns and walks away, calling back, “I’m past caring and out of options, Mr. Lester. Prepare to head out in thirty six hours, following Mr. Howell’s genetic alteration.”

 

-*-

 

            Dan jolts awake on the floor, gasping and curled up on top of broken glass. There’s icy pain all through his body, and everything is sticky with topaz gel. Two I.V.’s that should be in his foot are laying on the ground. One is emptying of its clear-blue liquid, tube cut by the glass, forming a viridian puddle as it mixes with the gel he should be floating in. The line that’s filled with deep red-brown liquid attaches to a chilling cart, like he’s seen used for wine. Against the cart, Phil is panting as he tightens his hands against a Vamp clique member’s neck. _What the hell- ohhh, ow, ow, ow, shit – why is-_

There are streaks of blood down Phil’s face, a thin trickle flowing from a gouge in his temple, and for some reason Dan can’t tear his eyes away. He swallows painfully, throat thick and dry, and shifts forward.  And then shard of glass twists into his leg, and he jerks back, horrified.

            He scrabbles up, letting the pain wash over him because he needs to focus on something other than the metallic, warm scent that’s wafting his way, and _wait, when did they increase my sense of smell?_ Phil grunts as he reaches back for a shard of broken glass, the person he’d been strangling breathing but unconscious. Dan rushes forward, trying to kick away the glass, stop him from killing-

            “Phil, no-“

            “Why not?” Phil bites out. Dan’s not sure how to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like a little kid’s idea of right and wrong, until he sees a muscle tense in Phil’s neck, his now-blue eyes flick to the right. Dan would be marveling at his new senses if he didn’t have to stop a murder.

            “You don’t want to kill him either.”

            Phil shrugs and sighs and continues reaching for the shard. “Of course I don’t want to kill him. He’s some idiotic teen that joined the clique for kicks and then got sent here to grab some blood. Bad luck on his part, but if he reports- _back the hell up._ ” There’s something violent thrashing in his voice, his face livid and righteously angry. Dan retrieves his hand from Phil’s shoulder and skitters back. “I’ve had three different friends _die_ because of these assholes. The last one was partnered with me in the field, and I,” Phil pulls up his shirt, stained with blood, revealing a pocket of scarring above his right hipbone, “didn’t get away without some personal sacrifices too. So you can take your black-and-white morals, and you can _shove them up your ass_.”

            Dan stands frozen as the dark-haired boy leans forward, drags the sharp edge of glass across the intruder’s throat. The smell of _his_ blood is acrid, unappetizing, and it reminds Dan of asphalt. When Phil turns back, his eyes are wet, but anger still suffuses his face. “You don’t get to endanger other people because you won’t feel all warm and fuzzy inside after doing what’s necessary. If you try to stop me again, I’ll kill you and do your job myself.”

            He shoves the body away and stands, and just as suddenly as the anger showed up, it’s gone. Chilled bags of blood and clothes get shoved into a bag with efficiency, along with medical kits from the drawers. “Another Vamp could be around here somewhere, and if we’re caught we’re screwed. We need to get out and get to the safe house.” Dan feels a knot rise in his throat, because there’s a dead person on the floor and his body doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to, and his teeth are slicing into his bottom lip, and he’s in pain.

            “Dan?” Phil is in front of him, and Dan actually has to look down a little, because he’s the taller of the two now. “C’mon, I know it can be overwhelming coming off the calming drugs they had you on, but we’ve got to get going.” There’s tears welling in his eyes now, and it’s not that Dan _wants_ to cry, _wants_ to stand still and be useless, but he feels trapped and lonely and

            “Mnnnn,” he whimpers as Phil twists the glass still in his leg. As he moves to rub the area around the wound, Phil grabs the back of his neck and directs him forward.

            “Just had to get you moving. We’re heading to the hoverboard dock.” Phil doesn’t remove his hand from the back of Dan’s neck. It’s uncomfortable and annoying, but he leaves it because he’s afraid if he shrugs it off he’ll freeze again. He goes along with Phil because he wants to figure out how to get his life back, but right now he’s pretty sure if he tried to run Phil would kill him.

            The hangar echoes with their footsteps on the steel floor, and the diffuse light of a cloud-covered 4 a.m. sunrise fills any gaps the sound leaves. High above, rain is thudding dully against the roof, the wet smell rolling across the open space.

            “Do you know how to ride one of these?”

            Phil sets down both of the hoverboards he’s holding when Dan shakes his head. “Figures.” He circles the rack near the right wall, pouncing on the right board when he sees it. “This is a two-person board. You can hang on behind me, and we’ll do okay. It’s a long trip for doing this, though. Your arms will get tired, could ache later.”

            “My _everything_ hurts. I think I can handle it. Well, this. Not everything else.” Phil pulls the board out, tossing Dan wrist and ankle bracers.

            “These will stop your fall, if you go off the board.” He approaches tossing something from hand to hand. It pulses with colored light, and beeps when Phil crowds in close, pushes up Dan’s shirt and hooks it into his belly button piercing. “This’ll read your center of gravity, so you don’t have to focus so hard on balance. Phil remains standing closer than he has before, board in one hand and the other running through the blood-matted fringe of black hair on his forehead. Then he gives a wolfish smile, and Dan’s heart starts thudding. “Ready to get going?”

 

-*-

 

 “You must learn to be strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be only half brave.” 

_–George MacDonald, The Day Boy and the Night Girl_

 

-*-

 

            The rain hits with splats against Dan’s face, the cold spray almost violent. He wants to hunch down and curve his face against Phil’s back again, but the smell of blood is intoxicating that close. _It would serve him right, having the blood sucked out of him,_ but even if he were down with murder; even if the thought of drinking blood didn’t repulse him as much as it sounded appealing; he really needs Phil to pilot the hoverboard. So he leans back, and tries to hold on loosely enough that he can’t feel the heartbeat thudding through Phil.

            The boy he’s sharing the hoverboard with, on the other hand, seems to be having the time of his life. He whoops as he skirts around a tree, legs braced apart and arms extended for balance, hair soaked and streaming water.

            “Aren’t you cold?” he shouts, and Phil shakes his head as he curves their path along the river, long ago filled with metal to repel the magnets in hoverboards.

            The sky starts to lighten, not with dawn but with the yellow-tinted buzz of city lights. Dan’s hands are stiff from cold, and with the approaching promise of bright warmth, his clothing seems almost unbearable, drenched and icy as it is. Phil slows as the first buildings start to appear, low cottages interspersed among the trees, and though the city isn’t visible, the glow it its lights fills the air. Far ahead, a road appears, cutting through the forest.

            Phil leans back on his heel, slowing the board further, and his back is pressed against Dan and there’s really nothing he can do except hold his breath and think about how miserably frigid it is, because the alternative is the smell of blood and gnawing hunger. Phil points out a cottage along the road, rapidly approaching, and shouts to Dan.

            “That’s the safe house. Soon as we meet the clique, we’ll move to the city, but finding a pl-“ Phil jerks back instinctively as a tree appears out of the darkness, but all of his Special strength and grace is gone. Dan puts the board in a spin as he wraps his arms around Phil and twists them so his body is between Phil and the tree, the half-formed thought that Phil’s bones wouldn’t survive the impact sitting heavily at the back of his head.

            _Crash._

There’s a heavy weight pressing on Dan’s ribs when he wakes up, which is especially concerning because he’s fairly sure several are broken.

            “Phil?” he hisses out, because fucking _hell_ , talking hurts. There’s no hint of movement, and when Dan concentrates, Phil’s breathing is too even for him to be conscious. _Right, then._

Dan gathers whatever scraps of tenacity he still possesses and pushes Phil as hard as he can off his chest, then thuds back down, biting back a scream as tears leak out. There’s something dark glinting to Dan’s left, and when he rolls his eyes all the way to one side, he can just make out the flat onyx of their hoverboard, somehow intact. _If I get Phil on there, I can lay flat and coast to the house._ He grunts and rolls all the way to the board, a whine in his throat every time his right side thuds into the rough forest floor.

            He’s pretty pleased with himself when he finally rolls onto the board, and it tips up, like a friendly dog greeting its owner. Dan pats it, because if it wasn’t here they would be spending the night on the forest floor. But when he looks back at Phil, there’s no way he can imagine being able to get the dark-haired boy on the board. _I could just leave him here, get him in the morning when I’ve recovered. It’s what he would do._

_If it’s what he would do, I’m doing the exact opposite. Which would be what, actually? Like, leave myself here, put him on the hoverboard? What is the **exact** opp- focus, Daniel. _

            There’s a lot of crying and half-screams and pain, but Dan manages to get Phil on the board eventually. And then they’re moving at a speed a snail would probably envy, but pretty much any other animal would, with love, deem ‘ridiculously fucking slow’. But they’re moving. Dan hangs his head, hair flopping forward, and tries not to let the smell of blood draw him in as they float gently towards sanctuary.


	2. Crave pt. 1

PART TWO: CRAVE

 

 

            They’ve been gently bumping against the wall of the house for the past few minutes, but Dan is loathe to start moving. Phil still hasn’t stirred, but his breathing is slowly becoming louder and faster, which Dan thinks means he’ll awaken soon. The door is to their left, with what looks to be an eye scanner next to the door handle. Dan pushes gently against the rough stucco, the feeling of gliding similar to floating parallel to the wall of his childhood swimming pool. Even the slight movement necessary to pull his head up causes his ribs to twinge. Blue light blips across his vision, and he’s already – painfully – reaching for the handle when it beeps and displays a readout on its tiny pixelated screen.

_Access Denied_

            “God fucking dammit eat my entire ass.” Continuing to breathe out profanities under his breath at the door, its programmers, and any and all of Phil’s employers, he sips in tiny puffs of air until his abdomen is reasonably rigid, then throws himself up onto his hands and knees.

 _Kill me,_ he thinks, whimpering subvocally at the pain. He’d had broken bones before, but never ribs – and there’s something uniquely piercing, incredibly _vital_ about the pain burning out from the breaks. Once he’s up, however, the pain recedes, and getting Phil’s head in position is, if not easy, at least manageable. His skin has an unnatural chill to it – once they get in, he’ll need to find a warm shower unless he wants Phil to die of hypothermia.

_Access Granted_

            Dan smiles, eyes crinkled and bright. _You’re damn right it is._

            The inside of the house is pale blue, androgynous in its decoration. The side corridor, down which he presumes the bathroom is, has only inches to spare on either side of the hoverboard. Dan suspects come morning, stripes of paint will have been scraped away by his pinballing from wall to wall. The room at the end is, indeed, a bathroom. Inside SunSim lights are being absorbed by dark wood flooring, and the warmth makes something curl up and relax in Dan. Whatever they’ve done to his body, plain old hypothermia isn’t going to do much – but it feels nice, to be warm. The shower door isn’t wide enough to fit the hoverboard, so he ends up slipping off (not particularly painful), and pulling Phil into the shower off the board ( _very_ painful). They’re both soaked anyway, so Dan turns the water on and lets its heat muddle its way into both of them, curled against the wall. Phil’s breathing, which had been going slower again, deepens and strengthens, which he hopes means Phil’s gone from unconscious and hypothermic to simply asleep. The bathroom is warm and cloud-like, and Dan soon follows Phil’s example.

 

-*-

            The water and Phil’s gaze are both lukewarm when he starts awake. Sometime in the past few hours they’d slumped against the corner, and Phil is clearly in the process of attempting to extricate himself. His ribs throb with heat, but the pain isn’t bad. _Advanced healing?_ he wonders, but Phil’s gaze is baleful, washed tired and gray, and now probably isn’t the time. Dan pushes himself up and lumbers – _fuck I’m tall_ – out the shower door. The water still thuds dully in the background, and the entire thing feels like a 3 a.m. dream. His first look at himself in the mirror isn’t the freakshow he was expecting – he’s paler and taller, sure, but he’s also huddled and slow-moving, eyes the same quiet brown they’ve always been. The shower stops with a drizzle.

            “Blood’s in the fridge,” Phil relates quietly, already peeling off his twice-drenched clothing. The wet _smack!_ each piece of sodden fabric makes as it hits the floor is jarring. Dan follows his example, still facing the mirror, and they’re soon down to their boxers and slowly meandering down the hall, Dan tiredly noticing the scarring above Phil’s right hipbone. The hole in the wall gives them pants and boxers in a muted gray, the familiar color of dorm uniforms.

            The fridge is, disconcertingly, absolutely filled with bags of blood. He pulls one out after looking hopelessly for normal food, and Phil is suddenly right beside him. “You’re going to replace food with blood in your diet pretty quickly, but you’re still transitioning to a vamp. We’ll order breakfast tomorrow morning.” Dan’s still staring at the bag, somewhere between horror and hunger, when Phil turns around and marches off to the left of the loft, where there’s presumably a bed. Dan absentmindedly rubs his thumb against a canine tooth, feeling the weight of the bloodbag in his hand. He holds it up to his mouth to bite in, but he can smell antiseptic and at least three people on the outside of the bag, and soon he’s rummaging around the kitchen for a glass. _Probably cleaner too_ , he muses, puncturing the bag with a steak knife and letting it drain into the cheery Alec the Android mug he’d found.

            The first sip is tentative, and then he’s holding the mug up and swallowing too quickly, canines scraping awkwardly against the rim. It’s not that blood suddenly tastes like ambrosia, he thinks – it’s that the taste of blood is suddenly, inexplicably, his favorite taste in the universe. The iron’s washed over his tongue, down his throat, _rich and satisfying and-_

            “Okaaay, that’s enough, Daniel. Go to sleep. Stop thinking creepy cannibalistic thoughts. That’d be great.” _And stop talking to yourself so damn much,_ he thinks. At the edge of the kitchen is a step up into the lofted ( _if a foot could be called lofted_ ) bedroom. The ceiling’s glass, moon shining down on Phil’s sprawled form and, on the opposite side of the room, his bed. A few light-washed stars shine overhead. _Goodnight_ , he thinks, throwing the wish into the void.

 

-*-

 

            Breakfast the next morning is fun, as Phil has apparently developed a taste for the rehydrated curry and rations bars he’s been living on for the past few years. Dan had already ordered cheddar omelets and crab and hot black tea and his favorite chocolate waffles when, almost as an afterthought, he asked Phil what he wanted. The resulting conversation-bordering-on-argument (“You cannot order dinner food for breakfast, and besides, that curry is disgusting”) led Dan to order an obscene spread of breakfast treats – mainly bacon and omelets and pastries, though the traditional waffles and pancakes made an appearance. Phil’s face as he’d tried each one sent Dan into fits of hysterics, with quizzical looks shot at him between mouthfuls. Now, however, Phil is nursing the plate of plain waffles as Dan pops calorie burners out of their package and swallows them between bitingly sweet sips of black coffee.

            “You knfowf,” Phil starts, and Dan only manages to avoid spewing his drink across the table because he accidentally punctures his lip when he bites it. Phil swallows the bulging bite of waffle and continues, “calorie burners don’t magically neutralize calories in your stomach. They speed up your metabolism and release fat-eating bacteria, to get rid of fat formed after the last big meal. Which you don’t have, because you haven’t been eating, and you don’t really have any fat right now. So…” He continues on, but Dan is suddenly struck with exactly how much he can see, hear, feel: each layer of flesh broken by his teeth, heartbeats and breaths and birds chirping from blocks away, Phil’s eyes, now pale blue instead of black - but he can see more than color, he can see the strands of his iris, the deep well of his pupil, the room reflected back in the shine of his eye. Dan slowly surfaces back up into the conversation.

            “…-night, which is just supposed to be a meet-and-greet of sorts – the Vamps kinda commandeered a greenhouse in the middle of the city, so I’ll be there under pretense of seeing their orchids and partying. You’re there to impress the Vamps.” Phil rubs his neck. “Genmod is…kind of a bold step, for someone who isn’t assured entrance into the clique, but it’ll certainly make a statement to your commitment.”

            “You, you said it was dangerous – what all does genmod entail? Am I still-“

            “You’re human,” Phil interrupts quickly, “just a couple new adaptations programmed in. Of course, the Vamps like to think of themselves as another species, but that’s just rhetoric. And it is dangerous – for those around you. Mainly, it changes how your body processes food and energy, making blood the most viable food. And there’s a lot of other stuff, too – fast healing, for one, and it alters some neurotransmitters, and increases muscle density and stuff. But most of the physical changes,” he says, waving a hand towards Dan, “are aesthetic surge.”

            Dan bites his lip, much more carefully than he had the last time. “Dangerous to those around me?”

            “Some of the others got a little too into character, is all. But sadistic ruthlessness was kind of their M.O. before they turned Vamp, so…I don’t know. The genmod is still processing in your system, probably will be for the next few days. Besides,” Phil says with a smirk, “you seem more fluffy bunny than malicious creature-of-the-night.”

            Dan snorts. “Well, this fluffy bunny sent you lights-out with a tree branch, so I don’t know what that makes you.”

            Phil rubs the side of his head absentmindedly. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m rubbish at picking out clothes, so we should probably get a head start – party starts at nine, and it’s just turned one.” _Hmm._

“Are we supposed to go as a couple, or pretend to meet there, or...?”

            “Doesn’t matter, really,” Phil says nonchalantly, but his voice is just a little shaky, heartrate a little too fast. It sped ahead when Dan mentioned ‘couple’, and he doesn’t think it’s in the happy-fun-sexy-times way. _Does he even know, how good my senses are?_

            “Friends’ll work, I think. Doesn’t mean we can’t match, though.” He walks over to the hole in the wall, pulling outfits out into a pile on the floor. Behind him Phil lets out a tiny sigh. _Don’t think I’ll ask him about that_ , Dan decides. _If friendship had levels, that seems like a 10 to unlock, and I’m at about point five._ Immersion only half-faked, he continues, occasionally muttering to himself.

 

-*-

 

            It’s just gone eight when Dan’s finally satisfied they look good enough for the bash. His dress is black and feather-soft, dark lace curling up around his collarbone like vines of smoke and stopping just short of his flash tattoo. Phil’s in a black blazer, shirt, and pants, and he’s complained the whole afternoon about ‘restricting clothing’ and ‘this eyeliner makes my eyes dry, Dan.’

            “Stop rubbing your eyes,” he admonishes. “You’re going to get blue all over your face.” Phil rubs his cerulean-streaked hand against the _very white_ couch as he looks out the window.

            “Carriage is here!” he chirps, and when Dan follows him out, sure enough, there’s a pre-Rusty carriage, complete with horses. One of them lips at Phil’s hand, looking for a treat. The other regards Dan with calm, liquid brown eyes as he steps forward and pats its neck.

            “Phil?”

            “Mhmm?”

            “Why the bloody hell do we have a carriage?” Phil shrugs, turning from programming in their destination to the box the horse’s reins vanish into.

            “The vampire myth comes from a couple different pre-rusty cultures, and they all used horses to travel. Plus, it looks cool. I figure, we want to make an impression, well...” Dan’s sure they learned about those eras in history, but he only vaguely recalls the lessons – _11 th century? 15th? 22nd? _The carriage is dark gilt and matte gold, dead silver leaves arranged in labyrinthine patterns. Stars – morning and mourning – shine on burnished ebony in the interior when Dan swings in. Phil’s hopped up moments after, color high on his cheeks but otherwise an image in ink and paper – chiaroscuro, light arrayed against darkness. The carriage rumbles forward, and he lurches back into his seat.

 

-*-

 

            The carriage’s wheels clatter against the pavement as they roll up to their destination at half-past nine. There’s still plenty of people arriving, the bustle insignificant next to the mass of the building. The building itself – well. _Greenhouse doesn’t do it justice_ , Dan thinks. It’s three or four stories tall, shiny bronze supporting broad leaded glass panes. And it seems almost alive, with the penumbra of music and life emanating, flushed from the inside with the greenery it houses. Phil swings out, loose-limbed and joyous.

            “I’m so excited to get inside – their cacti collection alone is the best in the city, but they’ve just added some new orchid hybrids.” The persona Phil’s wrapped himself in is bubbly and kind, laughter and excitement spilling over in a way that doesn’t seem entirely foreign to his personality. He smiles broadly back, eyes crinkling and teeth pricking his lips. Across the crowds he can already see that his canines haven’t gone unnoticed. He’d forgotten how thrilling it was, pulling strings, manipulating people to get what he wanted. Dan wasn’t fond of parties, but he occasionally had to charm one – how else would he continue to get invited, see the fireworks that were his only excitement?

            “What are we waiting for, then?” They stick close through the crowds and push through the revolving door, cool and smooth on his hand. Inside it’s lush, opulent – settees in jewel-toned silks tucked in amongst the greenery, chandeliers wrapped in organza, a humid warmth that has Dan glad he chose a lighter fabric. Off to one side is a white staircase, broad marble steps leading down into a room even more crammed with plants. A sign next to it proclaims it as the ‘Orchid Display and Gift Shoppe’. The air is heavy with the rich smell of loam and petrichor and- _and blood._ The smell is wafting from the back of the room where silvery evergreens stand tall, and it’s not muted through skin.

            “I’m going to go check out that grove in the back. You heading down to the orchid collection?” Phil looks pleasantly confused smiling politely until Dan points out the sign.

            “Ooh, yeah. As long as you’re okay on your own – don’t just want to abandon you.”

            Dan chuckles. “I’ll be fine. We can meet back up in an hour or two when the party picks up out here.” Phil gives a thumbs-up, and then he’s off like a shot, narrowly avoiding a potted bonsai and a couch, on which two women in silver dresses are passionately making out, before he darts down the steps. As Dan winds his way through the crowds, he taps out a message to Phil with the interface ring which replaced his skintenna. _Smelled blood in the back, prob Vamp HQ @ bash._

            The air is cooler and less humid between the trees, which stretch back much farther than he would have supposed. At the back wall is an elevator, from which the smell of blood is emanating.

            Dan presses the call button.

            The doors slide open smoothly, revealing an elevator operator and, instead of the usual panel of buttons, a single lever. Blood is sloshed on the floor, a crystalline glass broken and oozing the stuff.

            “Going up?”

            Instead of answering, Dan shrugs and steps in, carefully avoiding the shards of glass. There’s a single red handprint on the inside of the doors when they shut. The collar of the operator’s shirt dips down a little when he pushes the lever, revealing half-healed bite marks sprayed with skin substitute. His stomach swoops from shock and the sudden feel of rising as the elevator pushes up through the floors. _There’s something I’m missing, there’s got to be. This is nonsensical. There’s got to be a reason beyond style and cliques and blood._ There’s a feeling in his mind of crystallization, of something two dimensional becoming 3D. Even with the guarded explanations Phil had tried to give, and before him, that doctor; even knowing that deaths, _torture_ , had gone on- _None of it_ conveyed this sense of frothing unrest, violence and power and death.

            He’s still shivering with the sense of it when the elevator jerks to a stop, biting his cheek against the sudden irrational fear that they’d know who he was and why he was here. He glides out into the night, but it’s not, not really – open air is cut off by a dome of glass, covering the roof and the party beneath. He’d had a toy when he was little, a little wheeled dome with a handle just the right size for his tiny pudgy fingers. Inside the dome were colored plastic balls, and as he wheeled it around, it would _click, click, click,_ until with a _pop!_ all the balls exploded out, rattling around the dome. That’s what it feels like now, with all the people milling about in bright dresses and suits – building tension, a hush before the explosion. On the far side of the circle is an unattended table, piled with crystalline glasses and punch bowls filled with blood. As he heads towards it he senses eyes on him, probably for more than one reason.

            The first sip is a surprise – apparently the smell of blood could mask the smell of alcohol. _Wonder if that’d work for other things?_

            “You look lovely.” Dan turns with a start to see a girl lean languorously against the wall next to him. “I was thinking of challenging you to a fight – tradition, of course, with newcomers, and what all these brutes are waiting to see. But,” she laughs, and her laughter is delicate, not chiming but soft chirps, “I’d much rather a different sort of competition.” She slides her hand into his and brings it up to her face, inspecting it.

            “What sort of competition,” he asks, and her lips curve up enough to reveal the moon-bright tips of her canines. _She’s really quite lovely,_ Dan thinks. Red lips and short black hair and white teeth.

            “You’ve such long, beautiful fingers – violinist’s fingers - I was thinking a music competition. Although I could certainly accommodate if you’d prefer the more traditional initiation.”

            Dan laughs. “Not violinist’s fingers, pianist’s. But yes, I would certainly prefer a more civilized introduction to your,” _don’t say clique, don’t say clique, what did Phil call it this afternoon?,_ “coven.”

            “Mm, quite right.” She keeps hold of his hand, leading him to the center of the room as she points with her chin at several underlings. He has no doubt they heard every word of the conversation. “My name is Aberdeen.” Dan bows low over their joined hands and brushes his lips over her knuckles.

            “Mine is Daniel.” The expression on her face is unreadable when he straightens. _Why the hell did I-_

            “Ah, here we are.” She leads him over to the piano that’s just been wheeled out, presumably produced from a large hole in the wall in the adjacent room, and then glides over to a table with a strings case on it. When she pulls it out it becomes clear that it’s not a violin but a viola, large and burnished dark with use and age. The others, previously scattered around the room, now drifted closer in curiosity. He runs his fingers over a few keys as she tunes, pleased with the feel of them under his hands.

            “We’ll pass the melody back and forth, gradually speeding up until one of us fails.” Aberdeen’s smile leaves no illusion as to who she believes will make a mistake first. _She’s probably right._ She takes a deep breath, and then her shoulders drop and she relaxes around the instrument, playing out the first few notes. She runs up and down in arpeggios for a little bit, getting used to G major, and then does a simple melody in pentatonic scale. She’s started off easy, letting them both warm up, which is unexpected but not unwelcome. Dan speeds up as he takes over, taking her melody and building on it, flirting with E minor as he does so. And then it’s back and forth, back and forth, so fast that he can’t stop to think about the scales, can only hope his fingers remember better than he does. It’s no surprise when he finally hits a jarring chord, and bows out gracefully, letting her have the finale. She slows at last, letting the song turn deep and slow, not mournful but ponderous, waiting. She lets the notes trail off, and no one applauds. She turns to him.

            The look in her eyes is calculating, and after a moment she reaches both hands up and cups his cheeks. Her lips cover his, a soft press of benediction. She turns back to the crowd. As they start clapping, she pats him on the cheek, and then turns and walks towards the elevator. People surge up behind her, congratulating and welcoming. Another glass of blood, this one much more heavily spiked with alcohol, is shoved into his hand. The party’s popped, exploded with a riot of color and sound, and he lets it wash over him as he drains his glass and starts talking, asking the sort of questions he supposes any newly accepted member would ask and remembering their answers to tell Phil later.

 

-*-

 

Dan’s had quite a bit too much to drink when his interface ring finally buzzes, and a message from Phil lets him know he’s expected to be downstairs in ten minutes or Phil’s coming up to get him. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy as he makes his excuses and lumbers to the elevator, still splashed with blood and missing the elevator operator. He pulls the lever and delights in the swooping sensation, amplified by all the alcohol. He’d _like_ to find somebody’s pants to get into, but Phil probably wants to go straight home. Plus he has that thing about making sure Dan doesn’t run off, which means he’d probably have a cow if Dan tried to run off with some dude. _Unless_ , he thinks, _Phil is the dude_. Delighted at his own ingenuity, he darts – well, really, stumbles – off to the staircase he’d seen Phil vanish down. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense – Phil was attractive, obviously, and always acted like he had a stick up his ass. _I just have to replace the stick with something better._ He giggles at this thought as he winds his way through tables overstuffed with greenery, and exotic flowers in delicate blown-glass pots. He hears voices as he continues, Phil’s one of them, and he follows it to a long bar of polished wood, a replica brass cash register separating Phil and the girl he’s talking too.

            “Fucking _finally_ ,” he says as he turns to Dan. Phil grabs onto his shoulder and starts steering him away.

            “Wait,” the girl calls out, “aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” The girl’s face is round and dynamic, with a gap between her teeth that makes Dan suspect she’s a natural pretty that never opted for surge. Phil sighs heavily.

            “Louise, this is Dan. Dan, Louise. Let’s go.” Dan plants his feet instead and turns to greet her. She may not have gotten surge, but her scent...

            “You’re a Vamp?” Phil’s hand stops holding him back, and he edges closer to Louise. She shrugs and laughs.

            “Yeah, I got the genetic changes ‘cause the extra senses help me with my plants. I’m not really part of the clique, though.” Dan lets the information process, and then gives an emphatic nod and waves goodbye. Phil rolls his eyes and starts leading him out, and they’re still winding through the shop when Dan remembers his brilliant idea.

            “We should have sex.” Phil skitters to a stop, then sighs and starts muttering to himself.

            “Of _course_ he’s a horny drunk, why wouldn’t he be, of fucking _course_ you got stuck with him, oh, no, I couldn’t _possibly_ have gotten a few months of vacation. Goddammit why did-“ Still muttering, he pulls something out of his pocket and slaps it on Dan’s arm. They’re up the steps and out in the cooling night – Dan insists on spinning several times around in the revolving door while Phil looks in in disapproval – before the yellow patch starts making a dent in his blood alcohol level.

            The carriage rolls up as Dan begins to apologize, and they both get in. “Don’t mention it,” Phil says, and then lays back tiredly against the seat.

            “No, I just – I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

            “No, _really_. Do not mention it. Ever.”

 

-*-

 

            It’s nearly two in the morning when they get back, and Dan’s still feeling a bit dizzy and nauseous, _probably from spinning around and around while drunk, dumbass_. The horses trot off to wherever they came from as they enter the flat, where the lingering smells from breakfast finally tip him over the edge. He barely makes it to the toilet as all the blood he’d drunk a few hours ago comes back up. He desperately hopes that none of it is his. Phil meets him in the doorway with a glass of water.

            “Maybe you drank too much blood, and your body wants more normal food?” Phil offers, and although the idea of putting anything else into his stomach is disgusting-sounding, he does feel hungry. But only minutes after they try the plainest thing they can find on the menu – tea and toast – it comes right back up. They try different foods, just liquids, more blood – anything he eats comes right back up. He lays back against the cool tile and pushes the latest idea – a rare steak – away from him. _Just my luck – got upgraded to a superbody and still get sick_. When Phil comes back in to see how it went, Dan just lifts his arms.

            “Bed please.” Phil sighs even as he acquiesces, picking him up and heading out of the bathroom.

            “Don’t you want to try another-“

            “Not really. I’m thinking I just got sick somehow – I’ll probably be healed in the morning.” The bed feels wonderful, cool and silky against his skin. Phil gives his head an awkward little comforting pat as he snuggles in, feeling better already now that he’s not forcing himself to eat.

            “I’ll be fine – stop worrying. Seriously.”

 

            He’s not fine. When he wakes up the next morning, it’s with a splitting headache, probably from dehydration. He stumbles to the kitchen and necks a glass of water, and then peruses the breakfast menu. But just like the night before, anything he eats, he vomits out seconds later. So he stops eating. He tries once each morning with normal food, and evening with blood, but it never stays down. He’s sleeping through most of the day now, too, to avoid the hunger pangs, and Phil’s become a constantly hovering mother hen.

            He’s hauling himself back from the bathroom – his pee is clear now – to the kitchen, to drink and then vomit back up his evening blood, when everything stars going fuzzy and his thoughts start swirling. He comes to in his bed, Phil pacing like a trapped panther next to his bed.

            “This is all wrong. You’re too sick. I- I think there’s a problem with the genmod. You must not have gotten enough in your system to keep the ball rolling. You’re stuck in this halfway point, and...”

 _Shit. Jesus shitting fuck_. “I’m going to die.”

            “No! Yes. Maybe I don’t-“ He runs a hand through his hair, again and again, looking like he’s panicking or punishing himself or both. “We can’t go to the hospital, and we can’t contact- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who could help I don’t know I didn’t bring any extra genmod I can’t-“ There’s a thought niggling at the back of Dan’s mind, something or someone from the week before. _Not Aberdeen, or any of the Vamps- at least not on the top..._

            “Louise. She’ll have genmod.” His voice is rough, almost unrecognizable after the past few days of wear on his throat. He drops his head back.

 

-*-

 

            Seconds or minutes or hours later, Dan’s in Phil’s arms in front of an apartment door, glass panes on either side revealing plants and wood flooring. His head lolls against Phil’s shoulder as he leans forward and presses the doorbell again. There’s a rustling from inside, and then the door opens to Louise, dressed in a pink dressing gown and a shocked expression.

            “We need your help.”

 

-*-

 

Time is the king of all men, he is their parent and their grave, and he gives them what he will, and not yet what they crave.

_-_ _Pericles_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a lot faster than the first chapter, which gives me hope for the speed of updates in the future. Thanks to hunterfics (Ao3)/ hearteyeshowell (tumblr) for the promo and encouragement, and my twin (heartbeatsinreverse, Ao3) for beta'ing.  
> There's a lot of plot and relationship building that wasn't immediately apparent to me when I started this fic, but rest assured that there's now a fully fleshed-out plan, and I think it's a good one.  
> And for anyone wondering about Dan in a dress: I didn't explain in the chapter, because someone asking about it or explaining would have dispelled the lack of oddness in his choice of dress. In my view of the Pretties universe, I always thought gender roles would be a rather non-issue - especially with their culture's love of beauty and clothing, why would some things be artificially limited? Homophobia and transphobia are also lacking in my interpretation of their culture. Plus, I mean, Dan in a dress? Hell yeah!  
> Have a lovely day!  
> -renee_day

**Author's Note:**

> This promises to be a long, involved fic; as I'm currently on summer break, I can assure fairly regular updates. It'll live up to its Explicit rating, as well as have a fairly detailed plot.  
> In other news, it's almost literally unbelievable how few Uglies AU's there are, right up there with how few Sentinel/Guard Au's there are. This is a really cool universe, and I've been excited for awhile about it.  
> Comments are extremely appreciated, the longer the better. Let me know what you like and what you want to see!  
> tumblr is at waitingforareneeday.tumblr.com; fic requests and feedback are welcome.


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